Chapter Text
Phuwin learns the law the same way he learns hunger.
Gradually. Persistently. With a patience that comes from knowing it will not go away just because you ignore it.
The university library opens at seven in the morning. Phuwin is usually there by six-thirty, seated at the same long table by the windows where the light is good enough that he doesn’t need to turn on the lamp. Lamps mean electricity. Electricity means bills. The habits follow him everywhere, even here, even when it doesn’t make sense.
He studies before class not because he is behind, but because staying ahead feels like the only form of safety he understands.
Case digests. Marginal notes. A legal pad filled edge to edge with handwriting so small it borders on illegible. He rewrites arguments he already knows, just to make sure they stay sharp. Just to make sure nothing slips.
Around him, other students trickle in—laughing, yawning, complaining about deadlines they’ve known about for weeks. Phuwin doesn’t look up. He doesn’t need to.
By the time the first lecture begins, his mind is already tired.
That is how every day starts.
The first time Phuwin hears Pond’s name, it is not attached to a face.
It is spoken casually, almost admiringly, by a professor during a lecture on constitutional interpretation.
"Pond raised an interesting point last year,” the professor says, tapping the podium. “Some of you may recall it.”
Several students nod. Phuwin doesn’t. He writes the name down anyway, neat and precise, just in case it matters later.
It always does.
Pond sits two rows ahead of him in their Civil Law class.
Phuwin notices this only because Pond turns around once, scanning the room as if looking for someone, and their eyes meet for half a second. Pond smiles—open, unguarded, like the world has never given him a reason not to.
Phuwin looks away immediately.
There is something about that smile that unsettles him. Not because it is arrogant. Because it isn’t.
Pond listens when professors speak. He asks questions without apology. He doesn’t hide when he doesn’t know something, and somehow that makes him seem more competent, not less. His notes are messy, written in a slanted hand, arrows everywhere. He borrows pens when he forgets his own.
Phuwin hates that he notices these things.
The first ranking comes out on a Thursday
afternoon.
Phuwin checks it alone because he says friends are a waste of time. Standing in the hallway outside the registrar’s office with his phone held too tightly in his hand. He already knows the numbers. He has calculated them obsessively, double-checked, adjusted for participation points.
Still, when the list loads, his chest tightens.
Second.
He stares at the name above his.
Pond.
The gap is small. So small it almost feels like a mistake. A decimal difference that could disappear if one answer had been phrased slightly better, if one citation had been cleaner, if one professor had liked his tone more.
Phuwin exhales slowly.
"Second is not failure" he tells himself. "Second is still good"
"Second still qualifies for scholarships".
"Second still looks impressive on paper"
"But second does not pay more."
"Second does not erase debt faster."
"Second does not guarantee anything."
Behind him, voices swell as other students check their standings. Someone laughs loudly.
"Of course it’s Pond again.”
Phuwin turns before he can stop himself.
Pond is standing with a small group of classmates, looking faintly embarrassed as someone claps him on the shoulder. He shakes his head, smiling like this is all a misunderstanding, like the ranking is something that happened to him, not something he earned.
Phuwin looks back at his phone. The screen blurs for a moment.
At home that night, Phuwin eats dinner quietly.
His mother talks about rising prices, about overtime. His sibling asks how school is going, eyes bright with something dangerously close to hope.
“How are you ranking?” they ask.
Phuwin pauses.
"Second,” he says finally.
There is a beat of silence.
"That’s still very good,” his mother says quickly, reaching for his hand. “You’re doing well, sweetie. We’re proud of you.”
"Honey, just because we're not in a good state now doesn't mean you have to beat yourself up everytime, enjoy college, your mom and I can manage, hmm?" his father adds
Phuwin nods. He swallows. He forces a smile.
He goes to bed later than usual, staring at the ceiling, replaying the list in his head until the names feel burned into him.
The first time they speak, it is during a recitation.
Phuwin answers a question on statutory construction with his usual precision—measured, careful, airtight. The professor nods approvingly.
Then Pond’s name is called.
Pond builds on Phuwin’s answer instead of contradicting it. He reframes it, nudges it in a different direction, introduces a hypothetical that opens the argument wider.
The professor’s eyes light up.
“Yes,” he says. “Exactly.”
Phuwin feels something sharp lodge itself beneath his ribs.
After class, Pond catches up to him near the stairs.
"Hey,” Pond says, a little breathless. “That was a good answer back there.”
Phuwin stops walking.
He turns slowly, looks at Pond like he is assessing evidence.
“It wasn’t 'good',” Phuwin says. “It was correct.”
Pond blinks, then laughs softly. “Right. Yeah. That.”
For a moment, they stand there, suspended in something that is not yet hostility.
Then Phuwin turns and leaves.
Pond watches him go, brow faintly furrowed.
He doesn’t understand it yet. He won’t for a while.
But something has shifted. Phuwin begins to notice patterns.
Not immediately. At first, they blur together—lectures, readings, deadlines, the quiet violence of rankings posted without ceremony. But after a while, repetition sharpens into clarity, and he starts to see Pond the way one sees a recurring citation in case law: persistent, unavoidable, threaded through everything.
Pond always raises his hand a second later than Phuwin does.
Not because he hesitates—because he waits. As if gauging whether the question has already been answered sufficiently, as if deciding whether it is worth adding something more. When he does speak, it is never redundant. Professors rarely interrupt him. When they do, it is to ask him to continue.
Phuwin tells himself this does not matter.
He tells himself it is coincidence that Pond is always called on after him. That it is coincidence their names are read together during recitations, paired like a benchmark.
That it is coincidence the professors’ gazes flick between them when discussing “exemplary work.”
Coincidence, Phuwin learns, can feel a lot like mockery.
Midterms come and go.
The library becomes a second home—then a first. Phuwin studies between shifts at his part-time job, rereading cases on his phone while commuting, annotating PDFs because printing costs too much. His back aches constantly. His eyes burn.
During one late night, well past midnight, he looks up from his notes to find Pond sitting across from him.
Phuwin freezes.
Pond is alone this time, no laughing entourage, no casual confidence buoyed by company. He has a stack of books spread out in front of him, pages flagged with colorful tabs that look expensive.
"Sorry,” Pond says quietly, noticing Phuwin’s stare. “All the other tables were full.”
Phuwin nods once and goes back to his notes.
Minutes pass. Then more. The silence stretches—not awkward, but weighted. Pond flips pages. Phuwin writes, erases, rewrites.
Finally, Pond speaks again.
“You’re here a lot,” he says, conversational. “Do you ever go home?”
The question is harmless. Curious.
Phuwin’s pen pauses.
“That’s none of your concern,” he replies.
Pond opens his mouth, then closes it. He nods slowly. “Right. Sorry.”
They return to silence.
Phuwin hates that his heart is beating faster. Hates that he is aware of Pond’s presence in a way that feels invasive, like someone standing too close behind him in line. He hates that Pond smells faintly of something clean and unfamiliar, something that suggests money without saying it out loud.
He leaves before Pond does.
The next ranking widens the gap.
Not by much—but enough.
Phuwin stares at the numbers until they stop meaning anything. His hands shake this time, just slightly. He presses them into his pockets until the feeling passes.
Second.
Always second.
Later that day, during lunch, he overhears a conversation he is not meant to.
“I heard Pond got a perfect score on the Statutory Interpretation exam.”
“Of course he did.”
“Phuwin was close, though.”
Close.
The word lodges itself somewhere deep and unwelcome.
At home, the electricity is cut off for an hour.
Phuwin sits in the dark, phone flashlight pointed at his notes, reading by its narrow beam. His mother apologizes again and again, voice strained, as if the outage is her fault.
“It’s fine,” Phuwin says. “I can still study.”
He says it like a promise. Like a threat.
When the lights come back on, he doesn’t feel relief. Only resolve.
Pond begins to notice Phuwin’s absences.
Not from class—never that—but from everything else. Group chats. Casual conversations. Study groups. Phuwin leaves the moment lectures end, arrives early enough to avoid talking to anyone.
Once, Pond tries to catch up to him again, jogging lightly to match his pace but, Phuwin only went faster like he was avoiding a debt he couldn't pay.
The semester ends.
The rankings are posted.
Second.
Phuwin closes his eyes.
This time, the resentment does not flare hot and immediate. It settles instead—heavy, deliberate, patient.
Something is changing.
And they are both standing too close to stop it now.
Phuwin does not wake up one morning deciding to hate Pond.
Hatred implies intention. Choice.
What he feels instead grows quietly, the way mold creeps along walls no one checks because the house looks fine from the outside. It feeds on repetition. On proximity. On the way Pond’s name keeps appearing beside his like an annotation he cannot erase.
By third year, they are no longer compared explicitly.
They don’t have to be.
Their professors say things like, “As demonstrated by our top performers,” and everyone knows exactly who that refers to. When one of them speaks in class, the other is always mentioned afterward—sometimes directly, sometimes not.
Phuwin begins to dread recitations not because he fears being wrong, but because he knows being right will never be enough on its own.
There is a day when Phuwin comes to class running on three hours of sleep.
His shift the night before had gone long. Someone had called in sick, and he needed the money. He sits through the lecture with caffeine buzzing uselessly in his bloodstream, focus slipping at the edges.
When the professor calls his name, he answers anyway.
The response is good. Not perfect—but good.
Then Pond is called.
Pond corrects one minor point. Just one. He does it gently, almost apologetically, as if he is afraid of overstepping.
The professor nods. “Good catch.”
Phuwin feels something inside him snap—not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough to hurt.
After class, he doesn’t wait.
He leaves before anyone can speak to him, before Pond can offer that infuriating half-smile that says I didn’t mean to outdo you, it just happened.
Pond notices the shift before he understands it.
Phuwin stops acknowledging him entirely.
No more curt replies. No more clipped dismissals. Just absence. If Pond speaks in a group discussion, Phuwin responds to everyone else. If Pond stands nearby, Phuwin moves. Not dramatically—just enough to draw a line.
It is subtle. Intentional.
It bothers Pond more than outright hostility would have.
The rankings are released again.
Second.
Phuwin stares at the screen until the hallway empties, until the noise fades and all that remains is the list and the dull ache behind his eyes. He does not feel surprised anymore.
That scares him.
Later that evening, he sits at the kitchen table with his laptop open, scholarship requirements pulled up in another tab. The numbers blur together. Cutoffs. Renewal conditions. Fine print that assumes stability, assumes support, assumes a margin for error he does not have.
Top one gets priority consideration.
Top one always has.
His mother brings him a cup of instant coffee. “You’ve been quiet, something wrong sweetie?" she says gently.
“Nothing, just....tired" Phuwin replies with a faint smile
Although it was true. It is also incomplete.
Pond receives congratulations like they are background noise.
He accepts them politely, awkwardly, as if he is never sure what to do with praise once it arrives. His parents call to tell him they are proud. His friends tease him about being untouchable.
He laughs it off.
But at night, lying in his bed, he finds himself thinking about Phuwin instead.
About the way Phuwin’s shoulders stiffen when rankings are mentioned. About how he leaves immediately, like lingering would cost him something. About the tightness in his voice when he speaks to Pond directly, like every word is chosen to wound.
Pond doesn’t think Phuwin hates him.
He thinks Phuwin is tired.
He thinks that explains everything.
They are assigned to the same research room one afternoon—an administrative oversight, unavoidable.
The room is small, windowless, with one long table and two chairs. Phuwin arrives first, sets up his materials methodically, claims one side like territory.
When Pond enters, he hesitates.
“Oh,” he says. “It’s you.”
Phuwin does not look up.
“There’s another room down the hall,” Pond offers.
“Take it,” Phuwin replies.
Pond pauses. “I don’t mind sharing.”
“I do.”
The words are quiet. Final.
Pond studies him for a moment, then nods.
“Okay.”
He leaves.
Phuwin exhales shakily once the door closes.
He hates how much that costs him.
The resentment changes shape after that.
It is no longer reactive. It becomes strategic.
Phuwin starts anticipating Pond—not just academically, but socially. He adjusts his schedule to avoid him. He prepares arguments not only to be correct, but to be unassailable, so that Pond cannot improve upon them publicly. He sharpens his edges.
If he cannot outrank Pond, he will at least refuse him proximity.
Pond, meanwhile, stops trying.
Not out of malice—but out of respect, or what he thinks is respect. He gives Phuwin space. He keeps his distance. He stops offering collaboration, stops initiating conversation.
This, somehow, makes everything worse.
Because now Pond’s presence is distant, unreachable, like a goalpost that keeps moving just when Phuwin thinks he understands the rules.
During a faculty meeting one afternoon, a professor mentions Pond and Phuwin in the same sentence again.
“Both exemplary,” the professor says. “Though with very different strengths.”
Phuwin clenches his fist beneath the table.
Different.
As if that difference does not determine who survives and who merely copes.
By the end of the semester, Phuwin understands something with brutal clarity:
Pond does not have to fight him.
Pond does not even have to want to win.
And that—more than anything—makes Phuwin hate him.
By the second half of third year, Phuwin no longer tells himself this will end.
That is the most frightening part.
At first, he had believed—quietly, stubbornly—that if he just worked harder, slept less, sacrificed more, the balance would eventually tip. That effort was a currency, and if he kept paying into it, something would give.
But nothing does.
Pond remains ahead, not by leaps, not by spectacle. Just enough to matter.
Just enough to make Phuwin feel like the universe is correcting him every time he gets too close to hope.
There is a rumor going around campus that Pond has been recommended for an external fellowship.
It isn’t official. Nothing ever is until it’s announced. But whispers travel faster than paperwork, and by the time Phuwin hears it, the rumor has weight.
“Apparently it’s almost guaranteed,” someone says behind him in line at the cafeteria. “They only take one student per university.”
Phuwin’s appetite disappears.
He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t need to.
He already knows who the one student will be.
That night, Phuwin stays up reorganizing his notes.
Not studying. Not reviewing. Just rewriting. Reordering. Reasserting control over something—anything—that will obey him. His eyes blur from exhaustion, but he keeps going, page after page, until the words stop feeling like language and start feeling like punishment.
At some point, his sibling comes out of their room, rubbing sleep from their eyes.
“Phi,” they mumble. “Why are you still awake?”
Phuwin doesn’t answer right away.
“Go back to sleep,” he says instead.
They linger. “Are you… losing?”
The word is soft. Curious. Unafraid.
Phuwin’s pen snaps in his fingers.
“No,” he says sharply, then softens his voice. “No. I’m fine.”
But after they leave, he sits there for a long time, staring at the broken pen, wondering when exactly fine stopped meaning anything.
Pond hears about the fellowship from a professor.
It’s mentioned in passing, framed as an opportunity, not a guarantee. Pond listens politely, nods, asks questions. He doesn’t think about Phuwin until later, until he sees him across the courtyard, hunched over his phone, shoulders tight.
Pond hesitates.
He almost approaches him.
He doesn’t.
Something in Phuwin’s posture feels like a warning.
Their animosity—if it can even be called that yet—never erupts publicly.
That is part of what makes it unbearable.
There are no confrontations. No raised voices. No moments dramatic enough for resolution. Just a steady erosion of goodwill, carried out in glances avoided and conversations ended too soon.
During group discussions, Phuwin addresses everyone but Pond.
During debates, he counters Pond’s arguments with surgical precision, never naming him directly, as if refusing to acknowledge the source will somehow strip the words of power.
Pond notices. Of course he does.
He just doesn’t know what to do with it.
One afternoon, during a particularly tense seminar, the professor asks a question no one answers immediately.
The silence stretches.
Phuwin knows the answer. So does Pond.
For once, Pond doesn’t raise his hand.
The professor waits, then looks pointedly at Phuwin. “Mr. Phuwin?”
Phuwin answers.
It is brilliant. It is unassailable.
The professor beams.
Pond smiles too, small and genuine, like he’s relieved.
Phuwin sees it.
Something twists in his chest.
Because even now—especially now—Pond looks like he’s rooting for him.
After class, Pond finally speaks.
“That was really good,” he says, careful, keeping his distance. “You should be proud of that.”
Phuwin stops walking.
Slowly, he turns.
“I don’t need your approval,” he says.
Pond flinches—not visibly, but enough.
“I wasn’t—” Pond starts, then stops. He takes a breath. “Okay.”
That’s it. No argument. No defense.
Just acceptance.
Phuwin watches him walk away and feels, inexplicably, like he’s lost something.
The fellowship announcement comes a week later.
Pond’s name is on the list.
There is applause. There are congratulations. There is talk of interviews and future prospects.
Phuwin doesn’t clap.
He leaves early, claiming a headache.
At home, he locks himself in the bathroom and presses his forehead against the cool tile. He breathes in slowly, then out, again and again, until the tightness in his chest dulls into something manageable.
He doesn’t cry.
Crying feels indulgent.
From that point on, Phuwin stops pretending.
He no longer avoids Pond accidentally. He does it deliberately. If Pond enters a room, Phuwin leaves. If Pond speaks, Phuwin disengages. He does not mask his disdain.
It is not loud.
It is worse than that.
It is controlled.
Pond finally understands something is wrong.
Not abstractly. Not academically. Personally.
But even now, standing on the other side of Phuwin’s coldness, he cannot bring himself to feel angry. Only unsettled. Only concerned.
He tells himself Phuwin needs space.
He tells himself this will pass.
He is wrong.
By the time the semester ends, whatever they are has calcified into something sharp-edged and immovable.
They are no longer just rivals.
They are no longer just peers.
They are standing on opposite sides of a line neither of them remembers drawing—but Phuwin knows exactly why he refuses to cross it.
And Pond is only just beginning to realize that he has been standing on it this whole time.
The semester opens with the usual rhythms: fluorescent lights, echoing footsteps in hallways, the quiet murmur of students flipping through textbooks.
Phuwin arrives early, like always. His bag is meticulously organized; his notes are color-coded, indexed, and flagged. Every detail is a declaration: I exist, I am competent, I will not fail.
Pond shows up later, unhurried, golden hair slightly mussed, a smile that makes it impossible for anyone not to like him. He carries three coffees—two for friends, one for himself—and somehow makes the walk from the cafeteria to the classroom seem effortless. His presence is magnetic.
He doesn’t try. That is part of what drives Phuwin insane.
Phuwin notices, of course.
Every day.
During recitations, Phuwin watches Pond answer questions, always calm, always articulate. He doesn’t speak loudly or aggressively. He doesn’t need to. Excellence itself commands attention.
Phuwin finds himself calculating not only the content of his own answers but the rhythm of his speech, the timing of his gestures, the subtleties of his intonation. Every slight misstep could allow Pond to overshadow him—even if unintentionally.
He hates it.
He hates it because it isn’t fair.
Pond has never needed to work like Phuwin does. Every family meal, every late night of overtime, every scholarship application and rent payment weighs on Phuwin in ways Pond will never understand. And yet Pond floats past him, always just slightly ahead. Effortless, untouchable, smiling.
Phuwin’s hands curl into fists in his lap. He thinks about numbers. Percentages. Rankings. Scores. And he thinks about what it means to be second, to be perpetually good but never enough.
One afternoon, they are paired for a group presentation—unavoidable, the way the university conspires against him. Phuwin slams his laptop open, arranging slides, allocating topics with precise calculations.
Pond watches quietly, not interfering, not suggesting, just… present. His eyes flick occasionally toward Phuwin’s hands as they type, and Phuwin feels like every motion he makes is being judged.
“You’ve done most of this yourself,” Pond says softly, when they pause to check timing.
Phuwin doesn’t look up. “I don’t need help.”
“I wasn’t offering it,” Pond replies.
“Then leave me alone.”
Pond hesitates. He tilts his head, considers, and for once doesn’t try to speak. He nods. And that nod—the slight acknowledgment of existence without approval—feels like an insult to Phuwin.
Weeks stretch into months.
Phuwin has built a mental map of Pond: his routines, his quirks, the way he flips his pen when thinking, the way he smiles at professors, the way he laughs quietly under his breath when something is amusing.
Every detail is a reminder of Pond’s effortless supremacy. Every reminder fans the slow, consuming fire of hatred inside Phuwin.
He hates himself for noticing.
He hates Pond for existing.
He hates the world for letting someone like Pond take up space that feels like it should belong to him.
Pond, for his part, notices the tension but misreads it entirely.
He sees the coldness, yes. The avoidance, the curt replies, the way Phuwin shuts down when Pond enters a room. But he interprets it as fatigue, stress, perhaps even pride.
He doesn’t understand that this is not mere academic rivalry. This is personal. It is intimate. It has taken root and refuses to die.
Sometimes, when Phuwin is particularly sharp, Pond feels the smallest flicker of… interest. Not desire. Not envy. Not even fear. Curiosity, maybe.
He wonders why someone so capable, so meticulous, would harbor such a visible, concentrated animosity toward him.
He has no answer.
And Pond does not try to find one.
One night, the law library closes late. Phuwin has been there for nearly ten hours. His back aches. His eyes sting. Every page feels heavier than the last. He packs up silently, cursing under his breath the universe and Pond in equal measure.
Pond is already there when he leaves—studying, headphones in, oblivious to the hours he has kept Phuwin tethered to the library by proximity alone. He looks up, sees Phuwin, and offers a small wave.
Phuwin doesn’t return it. He hates that the wave exists. He hates that Pond’s face is open, friendly, unconcerned.
He walks past him with deliberate slowness, like dragging chains.
Pond frowns, and for the first time, there is tension in his expression. Not anger. Not judgment. Confusion. Slight concern.
Exams arrive, and with them, a relentless rhythm of tension. They are both brilliant, both focused, both capable of erasing the other’s advantage with a single subtle maneuver in argumentation. In the moot courts, in class debates, in written submissions, Phuwin’s hatred sharpens into something precise.
It is no longer just annoyance; it is deliberate, methodical, designed to wound subtly without ever violating rules. He wants Pond to feel the smallest fraction of the pressure, to know that even neutrality can become unbearable.
Pond notices. Always notices. He feels it as a faint vibration in the room, the kind you can’t name but can’t ignore. He does not retaliate. He does not fight. He observes. Sometimes, he is curious. Sometimes, he feels a twinge of responsibility, though he doesn’t know for what.
They spend long afternoons in overlapping study sessions—sometimes accidental, sometimes orchestrated. Phuwin plans his schedule meticulously to avoid Pond’s casual appearances, yet inevitably they collide over textbooks, over seating arrangements, over the same professors’ attention. Each encounter is friction: short, controlled, calculated.
Pond speaks gently, casually, neutral in tone. Polite, accommodating, sometimes inadvertently warm. And every time, Phuwin’s blood boils a little more because neutrality is worse than outright hatred.
Neutrality suggests that he does not even deserve disdain; that he is a challenge to be managed, not a person to be reckoned with.
But then something shifted within them.
It starts subtly. Almost imperceptibly.
Phuwin notices it first in the library, during one of their forced overlapping study sessions.
He’s seated at the long table by the window again, notes meticulously arranged, pens aligned like soldiers.
Every detail of his workspace is precise, controlled, immovable. Pond enters later, golden retriever energy intact, but quieter than usual, carrying a single coffee, earbuds dangling.
He doesn’t sit across from Phuwin—he sits diagonally, just close enough to notice, far enough to avoid confrontation.
Phuwin’s chest tightens. The control he’s clung to so religiously suddenly feels… precarious.
He huffs softly to himself, pretending to adjust a stack of papers, but he’s hyperaware of every movement Pond makes.
The flick of a pen. The shift of weight in the chair. The way Pond’s leg taps the floor in steady rhythm.
Why does it matter so much? he thinks.
It shouldn’t. It’s just Pond. It’s just the way he exists in the world, oblivious, effortless, untouchable. It’s not supposed to feel like this.
Weeks pass like this.
Phuwin starts noticing small things he used to ignore: the faint scent of coffee on Pond’s jacket, the way he tilts his head when thinking, the quiet hum he makes under his breath when focused. Every tiny detail is a tiny betrayal.
Why can someone be so infuriating and… comfortable at the same time?
Pond, naturally, notices the tension too, but interprets it differently.
He doesn’t understand the hatred, not fully. He feels the hostility, yes, but it doesn’t reach him the way it should. Phuwin’s glances are sharp, words clipped, avoidance precise—but Pond is patient. He’s curious. He wonders why Phuwin hates him so much. Is it fear? Admiration? Or just… resentment?
Sometimes, when Phuwin isn’t looking, Pond watches him quietly, almost fondly.
Not love—not yet. But something softer than neutrality.
The turning point comes during a moot court rehearsal.
Pond is paired with another teammate, but fate forces him to share the table with Phuwin.
They sit in silence for a long while. Phuwin’s hands are shaking slightly as he organizes notes, trying to hide it. He hates that Pond’s presence makes him lose composure. Pond doesn’t comment, doesn’t tease, doesn’t smile. He just sits, observing, listening, and for the first time, Phuwin feels seen in a way he can’t control.
“You’re… tense,” Pond says quietly, almost casually.
Phuwin freezes. His pen hovers over the paper. He doesn’t respond.
“You know,” Pond continues, gentle, neutral, “you don’t always have to do everything perfectly.”
Phuwin laughs—a bitter, humorless laugh that surprises even him. “You don’t get it,” he says.
Pond doesn’t argue. He just nods, like he understands more than Phuwin wants him to. And in that quiet nod, Phuwin feels something unfamiliar: a crack.
Cracks widen in ordinary moments. Like when Pond hands him a textbook he’s dropped by accident, Phuwin flinches and grabs it faster than necessary, heart thudding, or when Pond points out a citation error in his draft, his voice calm and neutral, Phuwin wants to scream—not at him, at the universe. Sometimes when Pond leaves a sticky note on his laptop: “Good luck on the finals :)”, Phuwin glares at it, then folds it carefully and puts it in his pocket, the tiniest flicker of warmth creeping into his chest.
He hates it.
He hates that he doesn’t hate it entirely.
Even the rankings start to feel different.
Phuwin is still second. Pond is still first. But the sting isn’t as sharp anymore.
Not because Pond’s victories have lessened—it’s because Phuwin is noticing the small, human things beneath the perfection. The kindness. The patience. The way Pond doesn’t gloat, doesn’t sneer, doesn’t rub it in.
And Phuwin—hates himself for noticing.
The semester edges toward its end.
One evening, the library is nearly empty. Phuwin is buried in case law, exhausted, his neck stiff, his eyelids heavy. Pond appears at the doorway, scanning the room.
He notices Phuwin, hesitates, then approaches quietly.
“Hey,” he says softly. “You’ve been here all day. Come on, take a break.”
Phuwin doesn’t move. His jaw tightens. “I don’t have time.”
Pond sits beside him anyway, careful, respectful of space. “Five minutes. That’s it. I’ll wait.”
Phuwin’s pen trembles slightly. He wants to protest, to push Pond away, but for the first time, he doesn’t. He just stares at his notes, breath uneven, aware of the heat from Pond’s presence.
Five minutes pass. Ten. Pond doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch him. Just… sits. And Phuwin hates that it feels… safe.
It isn’t love. Not yet. Not even close. But it’s something.
Something dangerous.
Something that will break him if he lets it.
By the time finals roll around, the dynamic has shifted imperceptibly but, Phuwin still hates Pond. Phuwin still wants to outrank him, to best him, to erase the frustration of second place. But the hatred is no longer pure. It’s mixed now with something messy, warm, confusing—an emotion he refuses to name.
Pond still moves through the world with ease, still neutral, still patient. He notices more now—every twitch, every flinch, every subtle reaction from Phuwin—and he finds himself caring in ways he doesn’t admit, even to himself.
They are enemies. Still. But the line between enemy and something else is thinning, almost imperceptibly. And neither of them can ignore it anymore.
It starts in quiet moments—ordinary, mundane, almost forgettable if you’re not paying attention.
Phuwin is in the library, sprawled over casebooks, jaw tight, hands trembling from exhaustion. He doesn’t notice Pond until a soft voice breaks the monotony.
“You’re still here?”
Phuwin snaps his head up. His first instinct is irritation, maybe even hostility, but he was to tired for that so he gave Pond a small hum.
Pond is watching him, quietly, carefully, leaning against the table. He doesn’t reach out, doesn’t hover. He just stands there, calm, patient, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips.
“You should rest,” Pond says softly. “Even just for five minutes.”
Phuwin bristles. “I don’t have time.”
Pond nods, slow and deliberate. “Okay. But I’ll be here if you change your mind.”
Something—annoyance, disbelief, maybe something softer—stirs in Phuwin’s chest. He hates that the presence of Pond makes him feel… something he doesn’t want to name. It’s tiny, fleeting, and he buries it immediately beneath a pile of highlighted notes.
Over the following days, small things accumulate.
Pond notices when Phuwin forgets his water bottle and quietly sets a new one on his desk. Phuwin glares at it at first, muttering, I don’t need this, but keeps it anyway.
During moot court prep, Pond catches a tiny mistake in Phuwin’s argument. Phuwin snaps at first, but then, almost reluctantly, nods and adjusts. He hates that he trusts Pond’s judgment.
Phuwin begins to notice Pond’s little habits: the way he tilts his head when thinking, the quiet hum he makes while reading, the subtle patience in the way he waits for Phuwin to finish talking before speaking.
Each instance is tiny—not love, not even admiration fully—but the tiniest soft spot begins to form in Phuwin’s chest. He doesn’t acknowledge it. He tells himself it’s annoyance. He tells himself he’s still in control.
Pond’s soft spot is easier to notice.
He watches Phuwin bite back frustration when things don’t go as planned, admires the meticulous care he pours into every detail.
He notices exhaustion in Phuwin’s posture, the way his shoulders stiffen, the subtle tremble in his hands after hours of reading.
Sometimes he finds himself staying a little later, lingering when Phuwin doesn’t notice, just so he can be there, quietly supporting without interference.
It’s not open affection yet. It’s careful. Tentative. Respectful. But Pond feels it deeply—a warmth he cannot quite name.
One evening, the two end up in the same study room unexpectedly. Rain streaks the windows. The light is dim, the library nearly empty.
Phuwin flops into the chair across from Pond, sighing. He tries to bury his exhaustion beneath a veneer of irritation.
“Long day?” Pond asks softly, not teasing.
“Is it not obvious?" Phuwin mutters, eyes on his notes.
Pond doesn’t comment. He just sets his bag down, opens his laptop, and works silently.
Hours pass.
Occasionally, their hands brush—accidental. Phuwin’s heart hammers. He scowls, annoyed at himself, then mutters under his breath,
Don’t be ridiculous.
Pond notices the slight flinch but doesn’t say anything. He’s learning Phuwin too—learning the subtle shifts in mood, the cracks in the armor, the soft spots that Phuwin doesn’t admit even exist.
It’s slow. Almost imperceptible.
Neither speaks of feelings. Neither acts on them. Yet proximity, shared struggles, and small gestures layer intimacy like sediment, almost imperceptibly.
By the time the semester is winding down, the tension is palpable, but still restrained. They are not lovers yet. Not even close.
And that tiny, reluctant soft spot—Phuwin’s for Pond—is enough to make the world shift underneath him.
The library is quiet, the hum of fluorescent lights above mixing with the soft scratching of pens on paper. Phuwin sits at his usual spot by the window, hunched over his notes, jaw tight, mind racing through case laws and precedents.
He doesn’t notice Pond at first.
Pond slides into the seat across the table—not directly opposite, but close enough that their knees almost touch. He sets down his bag and opens his laptop, headphones dangling around his neck. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t intrude, just exists quietly.
Phuwin notices, reluctantly.
Why does it matter that he’s here? he thinks, scowling at his own hands. He hates that it does.
Hours pass. Occasionally, Pond reaches for a textbook or a notebook—nothing is offered, nothing is said, but their hands brush accidentally once.
Phuwin flinches, heart hammering, and mutters something under his breath. Pond glances up, almost imperceptibly, and smiles faintly.
Phuwin hates that small, patient smile. He hates the warmth it stirs inside him, though he buries it under a scowl and a flurry of notes.
The following week, the university cafeteria becomes their unexpected meeting ground.
Pond is seated at a table with a few friends, golden energy easy and effortless. Phuwin passes by, tray in hand, about to leave after grabbing his own food, when Pond catches his eye.
“Hey,” Pond calls softly, not loud, just enough that Phuwin notices.
Phuwin freezes, cheeks warming, and forces a curt nod. “Hi.”
Pond’s gaze lingers—not teasing, not demanding, just aware. He’s patient, letting Phuwin retreat if he wants, yet staying present.
Phuwin hates the way he feels a flutter in his chest. He hates the awareness of Pond’s eyes on him, and yet… he notices, begrudgingly, and there’s a tiny spot—just a flicker—for Pond in his chest that he refuses to name.
In class, they are partners for a debate. Forced proximity, shared materials, quiet collaboration.
Phuwin notices the way Pond leans slightly when no whispering a point, careful not to touch him. The way Pond’s voice is calm, measured, almost soothing in contrast to Phuwin’s usual clipped tone. Pond waits for him to speak, letting him lead without overshadowing.
Phuwin hates how much it matters. He hates the small thrill of being acknowledged, of being trusted, even in this academic context. That tiny soft spot he carries for Pond grows imperceptibly with each gesture, each moment of care, each quiet attention.
Pond, meanwhile, begins noticing Phuwin beyond the surface. The sharpness in his eyes when frustrated. The way his hands tremble slightly when he’s overworked. The subtle sighs, the jaw tightens, the shoulders stiffen—the way he pushes through exhaustion silently.
Pond’s heart softens quietly, without fanfare.
He admires Phuwin’s strength, respects his discipline, and is drawn in by the vulnerability Phuwin doesn’t even realize he’s showing. He doesn’t act on it yet—he’s patient, watching, learning, letting the feelings develop slowly.
Even small, shared inconveniences start layering intimacy. They both reach for the same textbook in the library; Phuwin jerks back, annoyed, but Pond simply steps aside with a faint, amused smile. Pond catches a piece of paper that slips from Phuwin’s pile. Phuwin grumbles but doesn’t snatch it back, keeping it close instead. They walk to class side by side accidentally in the rain, umbrellas colliding; Phuwin glares at the wet sleeve but secretly feels comforted.
Each moment is minor, mundane, unremarkable—but together, they build the framework of connection, patience, and subtle affection.
By the end of these small, accumulated moments Phuwin’s hatred has softened into frustration, curiosity, and a reluctant soft spot—tiny, almost imperceptible, but growing. Pond’s neutrality has shifted into warmth, awareness, and gentle care, subtle but undeniable.
Neither speaks of feelings yet. Neither acts on them overtly.
But if you look closely, you can see it: the air between them has shifted. The energy has changed. They are no longer just enemies sharing space—they are two people slowly, almost imperceptibly, carving out a place for each other in their lives.
It’s mid-semester, and finals are approaching. The law library is crowded, yet they somehow end up at neighboring tables, surrounded by stacks of books.
Phuwin is buried in his notes, every highlight and margin meticulously planned. Pond sets his laptop down quietly, pulling out a notebook and sliding it close enough for their arms to nearly brush.
Phuwin notices. He clenches his jaw, hating the flutter in his chest.
Hours pass. Occasionally, Pond glances at him—not mockingly, not impatiently, just aware. When Phuwin mutters under his breath about a case law he can’t get right, Pond leans over slightly, whispering a suggestion.
“I think this might work better,” Pond says softly.
Phuwin stiffens. He wants to snap, to push Pond away, but instead he nods slightly, almost imperceptibly. He hates that he trusts Pond’s judgment. That tiny soft spot grows again, quiet and reluctant.
Later, on a rainy afternoon, they end up sheltering under the same awning outside the university. Neither wants to admit they’re relieved to not be walking alone, so they stay silent.
Their umbrellas touch. Pond notices Phuwin shiver slightly in the cold. Without a word, he slides closer, careful not to seem intrusive. Phuwin stiffens again but doesn’t move away this time.
A flicker of warmth spreads in his chest. He hates that it feels nice. He hates that he notices. That little soft spot—small, almost nonexistent before—has grown, though he refuses to name it.
During moot court practice, their collaboration grows tighter. Phuwin starts noticing how Pond listens—not just hearing, but understanding. The calm patience, the subtle attentiveness, the small gestures that show he cares without ever saying it. Pond notices how fiercely Phuwin cares, the exhaustion he tries to hide, the way he pushes himself harder than anyone else. He feels drawn to that determination, to the intensity that scares and fascinates him.
Neither of them calls it love. Not yet. But every glance, every brush of a hand, every quiet moment shared in proximity layers intimacy between them like sediment, slow and invisible.
One evening, they’re stuck studying together again, late. The library is nearly empty.
Phuwin rubs his temples, exhausted. Pond leans back, watching him quietly, notebook open but eyes occasionally flicking to Phuwin’s tense posture.
“You should rest,” Pond says softly.
“I don’t have time,” Phuwin replies automatically.
“Five minutes,” Pond murmurs, calmly, patiently.
Phuwin sighs and lowers his pen. He hates how easily he gives in. They sit in silence, the quiet crackling with unspoken tension. Phuwin notices the warmth of Pond’s presence, the faint scent of coffee, the ease of being near him despite himself. That soft spot is no longer just a flicker—it’s growing, though he would never admit it.
Pond, for his part, feels the same magnetic pull, noticing every tremble in Phuwin’s hand, every sigh, every exhausted slump. He doesn’t touch him. He doesn’t tease. He just stays, quietly patient, letting the feelings develop slowly.
Weeks pass.
They walk to class together sometimes, silently, unconsciously synchronizing their pace.
Small gestures become habitual: lending a notebook, passing a pen, offering a sip of coffee without comment.
Glances linger just a moment too long. Smiles appear more often, faint and almost accidental.
Phuwin’s feelings are hesitant and cautious, a soft spot that he barely acknowledges. Pond’s feelings are patient, observant, and quietly growing warmer.
The library lights flickered faintly as Phuwin slammed his pen down, frustration radiating off him in waves. Hours of moot court prep had left him drained, and his notes looked more like chaos than clarity. Pond was seated across the table, calm as ever, flipping through his own stack of papers with quiet efficiency.
Phuwin shot him a glare, not hiding the exhaustion.
“How do you make this look so easy?”
Pond didn’t answer immediately. He just tilted his head, observing Phuwin with that soft, steady patience that made Phuwin want to punch something—and also, annoyingly, want to lean closer. He hated that.
“You’re overthinking it,” Pond said finally, voice calm but warm. “Take a break. Five minutes. You’ll see more clearly.”
Phuwin groaned, but didn’t argue. He allowed himself a short, grudging pause, shoulders slumping against the back of his chair.
Hours passed. The library grew quiet, most students trickling out, leaving the hum of the lights and the occasional turning of a page as the only sounds. Phuwin glanced at the clock. Midnight.
“I… should go,” Phuwin muttered, rubbing his temples.
Pond glanced up. “Your place is far, isn’t it?”
Phuwin stiffened. “…Yeah.”
“You’re exhausted,” Pond continued, gentle. “Why don’t you just… come over to mine for a bit? You can finish here, or rest a little. It’s closer, and I’ve got coffee if you want.”
Phuwin blinked, caught off guard by the casual tone. His pride wanted to say no, wanted to resist, but the fatigue in his body and the small soft spot he barely admitted to himself won over.
“…Fine,” he said finally, voice tight but resigned. “Just for a bit.”
Pond smiled faintly, not smug, just… warm. The kind of smile that didn’t demand anything but made Phuwin feel heavier in the chest than he wanted to.
The walk to Pond’s apartment was quiet. Rain had left the streets slick, reflecting the dim lights like scattered gold. Phuwin kept his gaze down, backpack heavy, mind spinning—not with cases or statutes, but with the subtle awareness of Pond beside him. He hated the flutter of his chest every time their shoulders brushed.
Pond walked beside him easily, carrying his own bag slung over one shoulder. “Almost there,” he said softly. No teasing, no pressure, just a calm presence that made Phuwin’s heart race without reason.
When they reached the apartment building, Pond unlocked the door with ease. “Shoes off,” he said casually, as though they’d been doing this forever.
Phuwin obeyed, feeling a flicker of warmth—he hated that he did—and followed Pond inside. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and old wood. Warm, inviting, calm. He hated that it felt like home already.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Pond said, gesturing to the small study corner he’d set up with their laptops and books. “We can finish reviewing there.”
Phuwin dropped onto the chair with a sigh, feeling the weight of the day in every bone. Pond sat across from him, a few papers between them, calm, focused, quiet. The proximity was subtle but enough—the way their knees brushed slightly, the faint warmth of Pond’s arm occasionally in Phuwin’s peripheral space, the quiet comfort of being near someone who didn’t push but observed.
Hours passed in quiet concentration. Occasionally, their hands brushed when reaching for the same paper or pen.
Each time, Phuwin felt a rush he hated, heart hammering, cheeks burning. Pond didn’t comment. He didn’t tease. He simply stayed, letting the tension simmer, letting the awareness grow.
Finally, Phuwin leaned back, rubbing his eyes. “I… I think I need a break,” he muttered, voice low.
Pond’s eyes softened. “You can rest here if you want,” he said quietly. “I won’t bother you. Just… stay.”
Phuwin stared at him for a moment, chest tight. That tiny soft spot—the one he barely allowed himself—nudged him forward. “Okay,” he said finally, almost reluctantly, but there was no hesitation in the decision.
They settled into the small study corner, books and laptops around them, and the quiet of the apartment enveloped them. Phuwin leaned forward on the desk, elbows propped, forehead resting in his hands. Pond stayed close, calm, observing, a steady presence.
No words. No teasing. Just being near each other.
Every brush of an arm, every shared glance, every faint smile stretched the tension taut. Phuwin’s heart raced in ways he didn’t fully understand, and Pond noticed, patient and deliberate, letting him feel it, letting him process it slowly.
The air was heavy with unspoken desire, quiet, simmering, restrained. Not love yet—not fully—but a dangerous pull that neither could ignore.
The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of the heater and the occasional shuffle of papers. Phuwin’s head lolled forward onto his arms, exhaustion finally catching up with him after hours of studying. He hadn’t meant to close his eyes, hadn’t meant to let the fatigue overwhelm him—but the rhythm of the apartment, the warmth of Pond nearby, the weight of months of tension pressing in… it was too much.
Pond’s gaze flicked to him, soft and careful. He noticed the faint lines of stress etched into Phuwin’s forehead, the subtle tremor in his hands as he’d tried to hold his pen steady. And now—sleeping, even just lightly, vulnerable—it made something in Pond’s chest tighten.
He didn’t reach out.
He didn’t intrude.
He simply watched, taking in the way Phuwin’s shoulders slumped, how his chest rose and fell softly, how even in exhaustion there was a fierce intensity that Pond had always admired. His soft spot for Phuwin, patient and growing for months, flared warmly—quiet, insistent.
Pond shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, letting the soft light of the apartment catch Phuwin’s face.
Every feature, every flicker of movement as he breathed… it drew Pond in.
He knew it was dangerous to feel this way, to linger like this, but he couldn’t stop. The quiet intimacy, the proximity, the trust—Phuwin had no idea how close he was, how aware Pond was of him, and it made Pond’s chest ache.
Minutes passed.
Phuwin murmured something in his sleep, a tiny whimper, and Pond’s hand twitched, almost reaching, almost… but he stayed still. He wasn’t going to rush it. He wouldn’t. He just admired, just existed quietly, letting Phuwin rest, letting the tension simmer.
When Phuwin stirred, eyes blinking open slowly, he realized immediately that he wasn’t alone. His heart thudded—panic, embarrassment, a flutter of something else he didn’t want to name.
Pond was still there, seated just inches away, leaning slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze soft, patient, warm.
Phuwin’s cheeks burned. “I… I’m sor-,” he mumbled, flustered, trying to straighten up.
Before Phuwin could even apologize for sleeping Pond smiled faintly, voice hesitant and asked. “Can I kiss you?.” His voice was low, and deliberate.
Phuwin froze. His chest hammered, every nerve ending alive, every soft spot he had been reluctantly nurturing for months now flaring into something insistent and undeniable.
Without even thinking twice Phuwin slammed his lips against Pond. It was slow at first but slowly shifted to rough making out.
Pond sucking hard on Phuwin's bottom lips, nipping at it to provoke soft moans and working his tongue into Phuwin's mouth.
Phuwin tipped his head back with a soft moan, letting Pond trail more kisses down his jaw.
As Pond kissed his way down Phuwin's neck, his free hand worked at taking of Phuwin's shirt.
Pond's lips sucked a mark along Phuwin's neck, working to darken the skin a deep purple.
Phuwin suddenly whispered something "Do you want to take it to the next level?".
Pond couldn't believe his ears, he lifted Phuwin in a bridal style and carried him to his bed.
As they entered the bedroom, Phuwin plopped up in the bed hurridly taking his clothes off.
Pond on the other hand was mesmarized by how Phuwin is acting right now, just a few moments he also took off his clothes
As both of them took their clothes off
"Guess we’re really doing this, huh?” Pond said to lighten the mood, which failed
Phuwin nodded shyly the rude Phuwin suddenly disappeared which then was replaced by this shy Phuwin
Pond cleared his throat “Okay, uh. This is my first time so….”
“Phuwin,” voice low and serious. “If you're uncomfortable or if it gets too much. Tell me and I'll stop, hmm?"
Phuwin nods again,
Since this is both their first time none of them have lube so instead Pond takes his fongers and makes Phuwin suck them.
Phuwin sucks Pond's fingers like it was his last meal on earth, watching his soft plump lips on his fingers made Pond harder.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Here it comes, if it hurts just tell me okay?.” Saliva slicked fongers pressed against Phuwin's rim, slow and cautious.
Phuwin took in a sharp breath, body shaking. Pond stopped instantly, looking at Phuwin. “Too much?”
Phuwin shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No. Go on.”
“Okay.”
He pressed in again, more gently this time, like he didn't want to break something fragile.
“Fuck you're warm” Pond grinned at the sensation. "And fucking tight." He said as he exhaled deeply.
His finger went deeper inside, slowly, too slow to be honest. He tried to breathe normally, but he is fingering his classmate or should we call 'rival'
Phuwin let out a small moan, barely above a whisper but Pond heared it.
Pond stopped again. “Feels good?”
"Good, really good. Keep going.”
He moved his finger slowly, curling it upwards. The sensation made Phuwin's back arched, a loud, moaning sound breaking out of him.
“Ohh fuck please don't stop" his head tilting back
Pond stared, blankly, before not knowing what he was doing but he followed. Not stopping at all and watching Phuwin look like a mess just from his fingers.
After a few moments Pond added a second finger inside slowly.
Phuwin feels like he's gonna faint, a loud gasp from him. “nghnn.”
Pond panicked. “Shit, is it too much? I can sto-".
Phuwin shook his head “It’s-it’s good, just fuck p-please keep nghhhh going.”
“Fuck,” Pond muttered under his breath, more to himself than anything. “You’re so tight around me. Like really tight"
A though popped up in his head, without second thinking he pushed harder and deeper until his knuckles we're faced to faced with Phuwin's ass. Phuwin's thighs we're shaking wildly, going crazy over the stimulation.
“Shit,” Pond whispered, awestruck. “That’s crazy, that’s fucking crazy.”
He hit that spot again. Phuwin's reaction was fast, like a blur of motion. His toes curled, his back perfectly arched, and he let out a broken sob that made Pond's cock grow harder.
“What the f-.” Pond's voice cracked, half in disbelief.
Phuwin whimpered, turning his head to glare weakly through the haze. “Stop talking just ngghhh keep fuck going.”
“I just....” Pond tried laughing it off but nothing came out, pushing his fingers in deeper, rubbing right where he knew Phuwin needed it. “I've never seen this in the porn I watch, fuck your hot"
Pond's fingers moving in and out until Phuwin's legs were shaking violently around his hips.
“Pond nghhh fuck.” Phuwin cries tumbled out freely now, barely audible, loud sounds that made Pond harder.
Pond leaned over him, close enough that his breath fanned Phuwin's ear, and murmured, “Is my fingers pleasuring you enough?”
Phuwin's eyes closed shut. He nodded frantically, sweat edging at his hairline.
“Shit,” Pond muttered, biting his lip, his fingers still working inside him. “And you want me to fuck you after this? You’re insane, Pond.”
Phuwin answer came out messy. “Please.”
“You think you can handle more?” His voice was concerned almost reassuring in a way.
Phuwin's eyelids closed and opened. He could barely breathe, but his answer came quickly, needy. “More, please.”
Pond smirked, and to add to the stimulation he stroked Phuwin's cock, slowly but definitely did an effect on Phuwin.
That was Phuwin's breaking point.
Phuwin moaned at him, desperate. “Pond, nghhhh I'm close” voice barely coherent with the pleasure.
“Then let go for me, Phuwin."
"I’m coming, fuck, I’m-“ Phuwin tore apart, his whole body shuddered, a scream ripping out of his chest. He came hard, hot cum splattering across his chest, his whole body overstimulated as Pond continued fucking him through his orgasm.
As Phuwin was about to take it further, Pond kissed his forehead.
"No, Phu… not today. You’re still tight, and I… am big. I don’t want to hurt you"
explained Pond, his voice deep and controlled.
Phuwin bit his lip, still needy. “But you're hard, doesn't it hurt?"
"I'll be fine, all that matters is your satisfied, hmm?" Pond placed another kiss on his forehead
"Now lets get you cleaned up hmm?" Pond said as he looked at the boy messed up in his bed.
Are they still enemies? Or are they lovers? Or are they friends? That's the question both of them will suffer with the next day.
END.